


Missed You Like the Small of My Back

by mikafell



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Humor, I'm bad at that, M/M, probably, sorry for the sucky title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikafell/pseuds/mikafell
Summary: Blue. His first color. The thought births butterflies in his stomach, but it doesn't take long for them to start swarming up his throat and pushing tears out of his eyes. Just his luck. He's finally seeing color and he has no idea why. Somewhere on that train or rushing out of the station, is the love of his life. Future love of his life. And he's here on his hands and knees with the word blue swimming around in his head, mind reeling from the colors he can now perceive, completely alone.ORThat soulmate au where you start seeing colors when you meet your soulmate, except Oikawa only glances his on a crowded train and spends his last year of high school searching for them.





	1. Oikawa

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this at the bus stop and couldn't stop. What was meant to be a warm up for sumthin I wanna do for nanowrimo turned into a story with plot arc.

It must be karma. Maybe it's because of the time he used up his sister's shampoo without asking her and left the empty bottle in the shower without telling her. Maybe it's for the time he intentionally served a ball into the back of Tobio's head in junior high. Maybe it's because of all the times he's shamelessly flirted with people he knows aren't his soulmate. Probably it's a combination of all three. Either way, all he knows is the universe must have it out for him because he's half an hour late for school and pushing his way out of the train when he suddenly trips over someone's foot, faceplants on the platform, and sees blue.

Blue. His brain supplies the word before he can even remove his face from the ground. 

Tooru pushes himself up onto his knees and rubs his eyes. The lines on the platform are still blue. He looks up. The station isn't the same grayscale it normally is, instead it's overflowing with shades he's never seen before. It's almost blinding. He searches for something the same color as the lines, anything he can name to put this suddenly learnt word to use, but finds nothing. 

Tooru looks back down at the platform. Blue. His first color. The thought births butterflies in his stomach, but it doesn't take long for them to start swarming up his throat and pushing tears out of his eyes. Just his luck. He's finally seeing color and he has no idea why. Somewhere on that train or rushing out of the station, is the love of his life. Future love of his life. And he's here on his hands and knees with the word blue swimming around in his head, mind reeling from the colors he can now perceive, completely alone. 

Tooru wipes the corners of his eyes. What kind of person leaves their soulmate lying on the ground? He sighs. Fine, he decides. He doesn't need his asshole of a soulmate. What he needs is to get to school, he's probably at least 45 minutes late now. So, he clears his throat, straightens his blazer, pushes himself off the ground, and keeps walking.

When he gets out of the station it feels as if he's been hit by a gust of wind that wraps its arms around his chest and a too tight hug. 

They sky - it's blue.

Tooru mills over it on his way home. There are services for this kind of thing, companies and government funded agencies that will cross reference where you started Seeing with their list of other single soulmates. But the waiting lists for those can sometimes be months long, and even then there’s no guarantee your soulmate will be on the list. Tooru kicks a pebble down the sidewalk, petulantly considering joining one of those groups that advocates for more centralized soulmate services.

Before he knows it, Tooru is back in the train station. He looks up at the ceiling and pulls out the booklet he got from the color counselor. He flips through the pages until he finds a color swatch that matches the ceiling - beige. No, they’re probably white, tinted yellow by the lights. He runs his fingers around the corners of the lightest swatch. He flips the page again. Subway stations seem to have a lot of white in them, but there’s also public service announcements printed on the barriers backed with bright pink and strips along the edge of the platform painted in a bold yellow. When the train pulls in Tooru watches passengers flow out of the carriages, quietly cataloguing the colors of their clothes. Black suit jackets and light green sweaters. Navy blue skirts and brown loafers. Then the train’s doors close, doors painted a garish green, and Tooru watches it leave. 

As the station empties Tooru makes a decision. He shoves the booklet back into his bag, pulls out his cell phone, and makes a call. After five rings, the recipient finally picks up.

“Makki?” Tooru plants himself in front of the barrier door, free hand on his hip. “I’m going to find my soulmate.”

Unsurprisingly, Hanamaki is incredibly confused. 

“You’re going to what?”

“I’m gonna find my soulmate!”

“Right, but why.”

“Well who else is supposed to find them for me?”

“I don’t know, the universe?”

It’s at that moment that Tooru remembers Hanamaki has no idea what happened to him that morning. Since soulmates are such a given, people don’t really talk about it. Tooru is a rarity. In the past few years he’s learned to tone down his romanticism. 

“Well the universe messed up,” he huffs. “I can See but my soulmate’s nowhere to be seen, so action needs to be-”

Tooru hears a sudden burst of rustling on the other end of the line, then a loud thump. “YOU WHAT?”

"I can see colors now, Makki, keep up."

Tooru hears a little more shuffling, then dinner grumbles about how Tooru should be less of an asshole to his best friend. "Why didn't you tell me," Hanamaki demands. "You normally won't shut up about your soulmate."

Apparently Tooru's not as well adjusted as he'd thought.

"Weren't you listening? I haven't met him yet I can only See." Tooru knows he's getting whiny, but at this point he doesn't care. Sometimes you just need to tell the world how much it sucks, you know?

Hanamaki interiors him with a laugh, the kind that reminds Tooru just how much he enjoys tearing other teams apart in an important match. "Ooh," Hanamaki leers. And Tooru can almost hear the way Hanamaki's probably squinting his eyes right now. “‘He?’ I thought you said you hadn’t met him yet.”

Tooru gives another petulant huff. “I haven’t. I just think it’d be nice if he was a guy, don’t you have preferences?”

“No, not really.”

The thing is, Tooru is a romantic. When he was ten he’d snuck into his sister’s room and stolen everything he could fit under his shirt. One of these things was a book set in a world where soulmates didn’t exist. Ever since then he’d been squirreling away romance books to read in between class and volleyball practice or before bed (Tooru’s favorite is a book where people use something called dating apps to try and find their perfect partner). He has no shortage of stories about people falling in love, people who have to suffer to find love, people who work to become happy in love. So naturally, meeting his soulmate was something that Tooru had been pretending not to look forward to for the past eight years. The thing is, most people most people aren’t like him. Romance is a barely surviving genre. The average human doesn’t have to put any work into finding their perfect match, and though it’s no mystery that you have to put effort into making a relationship last, the fictional struggles and heartache Tooru obsesses over are largely absent from the real world.

“Oikawa?”

Tooru hums in acknowledgement.

“There are hundreds of companies that could help you find your soulmate. You know that, right?” Hanamaki’s voice is unusually soft. It’s one Tooru doesn’t often hear.

Tooru nods, even though he knows Hanamaki can’t see it. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause before Hanamaki’s voice comes through the speaker again. “Let me know if you need any help.”

Tooru nods again and hangs up. The next train slides into the station. Tooru steps aside so that the disembarking passenger can get out, then boards. He pulls out his color booklet again and holds it up in front of his face. He doesn’t need it, though. The seats are blue, too.


	2. Iwaizumi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iwaizumi's side of the beginning, plus a little bit more. 
> 
> In which Oikawa indirectly makes Iwaizumi suffer

If you asked him, Hajime would say he’s just about average. He’s a little taller than average, good at volleyball and math and bad at English and drawing. He has a good number of friends, slightly above average grades, makes disaster experimental recipes in his free time, and, like most of his peers, he doesn’t put much thought into the whole soulmate thing. It’s about as normal and natural as going to school. So when on the morning of November 23 he suddenly starts to See on the train with no other overexcited passenger in sight, visiting the Parallel office is as routine as taking a makeup test.

The reception area at Parallel is so quiet he can hear the hum of the aircon. The room is painted in soft blues and greens with chairs along the walls and a counter in the center of the room. Behind the counter is a woman with her hair tied up in a tight bun, hands dancing across a keyboard filling the space with soft clacking noises. Her hair is the same color as his first color. It’s a mild brown he’s come to associate with milk chocolate. 

Hajime shoves his hand into his pockets and shuffles up to the counter. He stands there for a bit, waiting for the receptionist to notice him, but she just keeps typing. He bites his lip nervously and waits a few more seconds before tapping his fingers on the counter. The receptionist looks up then lets out a little squeak. “Sorry!” she sputters, straightening her glasses then straightening the papers on her desk. “Are you here to make an appointment?”

Hajime does his best to give her a reassuring smile. “Yeah.” His voice comes out rough from disuse. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Yeah. I lost my soulmate.”

The woman nods then turns back to her computer. “Of course,” she says softly. “Well we actually have an opening right now, if you’ll just wait a few minutes I can let Mr. Hashikami know and have you in and out in half an hour.”

Hajime nods. “Thanks.”

He stands there for a moment wondering if it’s worth sitting down for the wait, then plops down on one of the chairs, hands still in his pockets. The receptionist keeps typing. After the first minute it occurs to him that he should probably sit with better posture. Half way through the second minute the constant clacking seems to be getting louder. And louder. It’s starting to make his temples throb. He scowls and rubs them with his middle fingers. How can one keyboard be so noisy? It’s getting into the third minute and Hajime is about to leave the room when a man in a stiff button down shirt finally comes in from the back.

The man, probably Hashikami, looks down at his clipboard then up at Hajime. “Iwaizumi Hajime?”

Hajime refrains from making a sarcastic remark (he is the only one in the room who doesn’t work here) and nods. Hashikami leads him into his office where Hajime drops unceremoniously into the chair facing the desk. The room is pretty bare, a college diploma on the bookshelf accompanied by rows of thick, black binders and a few romance novels. A silent clock on the wall facing the desk. A family photo beside the computer facing Hashikami. Hajime doesn’t know what he was expecting, but the bare walls are making him fidgety.

Hashikami sits down behind the desk and pulls out a pen and a sheet of paper. “Alright,” he says, cheerful voice tight around the edges with fatigue. “I just need you to sign this and then we can start putting your information into the database.”

They spend the next hour squeezing every detail Hajime can remember into the provided inputs for their soulmate matching algorithm. Date: November 23. Time: between 7:30 and 8:30am. Location: Atagobashi Station, train going towards Yaotome. It had been the tail end of rush hour, so identifying his soulmate was near impossible. The train had pulled into the station, the doors had opened, Hajime had been jostled a bit as people exited and entered the car, then when the doors closed again he could See. Hajime has black hair and brown eyes and stands at a frustrating 179.3cm. Since no one else on the train looked unusually excited he’d assumed his soulmate must have gotten left behind at the last stop. He hadn’t wanted to make a fuss just to ask if anyone else had started seeing.

After Hajime hands the receptionist his mother’s credit card to pay the registration fee there’s not much he can do but wait. He tries not to wonder what his soulmate is like. They say that people who do are destined for heartbreak. But that’s only a superstition, and if Hajime is anything it’s rational. He knows any fantasies would be pointless because, in the end, the universe has set him up with whoever he needs most, regardless of personal preference. Still, Hajime can’t help but feel like he should be doing more.

The next morning, on the way to school, Hajime glares at his phone so he won’t scrutinize every face on the train. His classmates laugh at him for spacing out during class and his teammates poke fun when he gets over excited and serves a ball into the basketball net. Going home he unconsciously makes note of every face he’s seen twice. Once he’s there, he has to stop himself from checking his email every twenty minutes, and when he goes to sleep his homework is covered with mistakes, scribbled out instead of sensibly erased.

After putting it off for a week, Hajime goes to his school’s color counselor. She’s a young woman with a delicate smile and sleek black hair cut just below the ears. She shows him a color wheel and asks him to point to his first color. He considers it carefully before placing his finger on what he thinks is the right shade of brown. “Oh,” she laughs. “What a kind color. You must be very lucky.” 

Hajime thinks that’s a load of crap.

The counselor also gives him a book of colors to study in his free time, as if he needed more work to add on top of school and volleyball training. As if he hasn’t already taught himself the basics. It’s not like he even needs to know color names, since most of the world operates without them. Still, he catches himself thumbing through the pages during lunch and on the walk home, matching swatches to book covers and street signs. His own eyes are a little darker than his first color. His favorite sweatshirt is forest green. His school bag is a charcoal gray, his blazer a matching shade, and his tie is an obtrusive sort of baby blue. He’s not sure he likes that color. He’s finding there’s a lot of colors he doesn’t like, like the vomitty green of his English workbook and the neon pink of those beverage advertisements he sometimes sees. He could do without them. He likes his first color, though, even though he’s recently realized it’s the same color as shit. There’s something about it that makes his jaw relax and the tension leave his forehead. Or maybe meeting his soulmate has turned him into a sap.

Not like they’ve actually met.

Hajime has enough self restraint to only check his email once a day, just before going to bed. He makes sure to double check his homework before shoving it into his bag where he won’t forget it in the morning. He always brushes his teeth. Sometimes he even tidies his room before finally opening his laptop and reloading his inbox. That way, when the only new email is an advertisement from the ramen shop he signed up for a raffle for a 100 day ramen supply at, he can throw himself into bed and sleep off the disappointment.

He’s not that disappointed. He’s not. He just wishes he could stop waiting, have one less unknown to worry about.

Eventually he has to cut back to checking for emails twice a week. He knows no one emails him anyway, so it’s not like he’ll miss anything time sensitive. To calm the restless feeling in the tips of his fingers he takes to rolling volleyballs around the kitchen counter while he thinks up new bizarre culinary combinations he can make Matsukawa try. This habit doesn’t last long though, his mom kicking him out of the house with a scolding about putting sports equipment where they cook.

Hajime makes a new routine. He wakes up ten minutes early to try and flatten his hair (he fails) then eats breakfast with his parents before running to the train station and going to school. He eats lunch with the new transfer student from Seijoh (a short girl with large glasses who gets loud when she’s excited and blushes easy) and sets himself on autopilot during class so he can take notes without getting distracted by new shades. Then, if it’s a Tuesday, he checks his email right before practice, so that his teammates can heckle him away from his phone and his can slam his frustration against the leather of a volleyball. And for Hajime, it works. By the time he’s home his head is clear. The itching in his fingertips doesn’t come back until he’s about to go to sleep.

If he’s lucky he’ll forget what he’s waiting for in the confusion of recently shaken off sleep. Eat. Sleep. Rinse and repeat. Study. Ignore people on the train. Rinse and repeat. Check the name of a new color. Rinse. Mark the date. Repeat. 

It goes on like this until one day he comes home, does his homework, and goes to bed without even opening his email. 

Two days later Matsukawa drags a chair across from Hajime and flicks him on the forehead before he can even open his lunch.

Hajime clenches his teeth and tries not to flick him back. He fails.

“Hey,” Matsukawa complains. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”

Hajime just raises an eyebrow then goes back to his food as Matsukawa shuffles around behind Hajime and starts tugging at his hair.

“You’ve been quiet recently.”

Hajime grunts in response.

“We miss your yelling. Who else is gonna get our butts in gear when we get tired?”

Hajime snorts. “Yeah, well maybe I’m nice now.”

Mastukawa hums and gives a section of hair on the back of Hajime’s head a twist. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Sounds fake.”

Hajime squeezes his eyes shut and tries to let the gentle pulling on his scalp distract him from the churning in his chest. Mastukawa’s not wrong. He’s just been tired, tired and listless. He has to force himself out of bed under threat of starvation and leaves practice feeling wrung out in the bad way. Luckily, school work is so ingrained in his daily routine that he does it out of instinct.

Mastukawa makes a particularly sharp tug, bringing Hajime back to earth. He’s being dramatic, really. He’d probably get out of bed even if he had a butler to bring his food, he thinks as Matsukawa starts twisting the hair above his right ear. The smell would drive him out. He can’t stand the smell of overused beds, unwashed sheets. He’d also miss volleyball probably. Definitely. Matsukawa starts to pull on the hair above his left ear. He’d miss the sting of a cleanly received spike, the look of the court from above the net and the wild roar of his teammates in moments of success. He’d miss the thrill. He’d miss the connectedness.

After a few more minutes the pulling stops and Matsukawa pats Hajime on the head. Hajime’s eyebrow twitches. He’s this close to smacking him. “Alright,” Matsukawa declares. “All set. See you in practice, captain.” Then he slides out the door, hands folded behind his back, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Hajime pats his own head, then pulls out his phone when he feels something prickly. When he opens the camera app he almost screams. His normally porcupine-looking hair now looks like some kind of hellish porcupine with split ends, brightly colored rubber bands holding his hair in bunches that splay out like palm trees at the ends. His chair goes flying as he shoots out of the room and tears down the hall towards class one. Then he does scream. “MATSUKAWA!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized these chapters are short as heck.  
Iwaizumi was really hard for me to figure out how to write, because in the source material he's really only ever seen in relation to Oikawa. It's a little like he only exists to be Oikawa's partner. Add in the fact that in this universe he's never met Oikawa and suddenly he has almost no personality at all. I think I didn't pretty well building a character for him, though. I had this whole bit planned about how he gets really mad at his first color where he goes on a rant to himself about how it's a shit color and who the hell likes the color of poop but it didn't make it in.  
I'm regretting a little not switching Hanamaki and Matsukawa (that's 'must beat iwaizumi at arm wrestling' mentality would be fun to play with) but you know somehow we ended up a Matsukawa that plays with people's hair to calm them down, so it was worth it.


End file.
